These are the Ruins
by nanowrimoneverends
Summary: The war is finally over. But at what cost? A little one-shot I wrote ages ago for HPFF.


"HOW COULD YOU?" the short one shouted. The entire street could hear the men's argument (which seemed rather one-sided) and several residents were about to ask them to keep it down. They were, after all, disturbing the peace of their charming little neighborhood. It was a matter of seconds before the annoyed residents wished that the argument had continued as a shouting match.

Eyewitnesses would later describe both men moving very quickly, grabbing something small in their pocket- a gun, perhaps- and there was a shout, a flash, a bang, and, just like that, the street was blasted apart. Everything was shrouded in a cloud of dust, which hid bits of rubble from well-meaning citizens hurrying to help the bystanders injured by the explosion, rubble that wanted nothing more than to add to the chaos. Cries of pain and suffering sounded from around the caved-in street, but a more vehement one was discernable from the chorus of the injured. "PETER! COME BACK HERE, YOU BLOODY COWARD! PETER! PETER PETTIGREW!"

He was standing in the middle of the street, where the blast had come from, although he had taken far less damage than most of the onlookers. He was shouting in a mangled, unintelligible voice, screaming for someone named Peter and exhibiting a rather colorful vocabulary. The surrounding civilians were intimidated by the wild man and kept their distance.

A strange-but-official-looking team arrived and cleared through the dust and rubble with ease. Most were tending to the wounded and searching for the dead, but a few of them had spotted the man who had stopped shouting for "Peter" and started shaking with uncontrollable rage. They surrounded him, each brandishing a wand.

"What's going on here?" one of the wand owners asked.

The man in the middle of the street was so consumed with fury that he couldn't comprehend that he had just been asked a question. No reply was made.

One of the other team members came to the scene. He whispered something to a shorter man with a bowler hat, who nodded and looked rather uncomfortable. "Sirius Orion Black, you are now under arrest for charges of mass murder with the intent to kill, in addition to passing information to You-Know-Who, which resulted in the murder of some of the very best and brightest of the Wizarding community,"

Sirius seemed completely oblivious to the fact that his hands were being manacled. Perhaps he couldn't feel anything through the intense shaking; perhaps his anger was too great.

Or perhaps his loss was too terrible.

The team member who had previously brought news returned with a note for the man in the bowler hat. The man with the hat unfolded and read the note, nodded, and came over to the man who was being arrested and his captors.

"Note from the Minister. He's to be locked up immediately, if he doesn't request a trial,"

"In Azkaban?"

"Yes." The man in the bowler hat turned to Sirius. "Sirius Orion Black, you are being sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban for the murder of 13 Muggles and the destruction of Mr. Peter Pettigrew. Do you deny these claims? Speak now or forever hold your peace." No answer was made; it was as if Sirius was on some other planet far, far away. "Very well. Take him away, boys,"

The two guards cautiously maneuvered themselves to be better situated to escort Sirius.

"13 Muggles! With one spell!" one whispered as they walked.

"I can't believe he was a spy for You-Know-Who! And that it's his fault that the McKinnons died- and the Prewett twins as well! It looks like this poor chap tried to stop Black from telling- and look what happened to him! Foster told me they've only been able to find a finger!"

"What was the bloke's name again?"

"Er...Peter Pettigrew,"

Sirius snapped from his reverie at the name. "Peter- where? COME OUT, COME OUT, PETER, COME OUT AND PLAY! COME OUT AND PLAY, YOU COWARD!"

The guards exchanged identical looks of fear, realizing that they had been entrusted with the delivery of a delusional, volatile, and highly dangerous wizard. There was little hesitation in their decision to Apparate to Azkaban as soon as possible.

The guards shuddered in the chill cast by the dementors; Sirius, however, showed no change. His face was stoic, but he was still trembled with anger like boiling water in a tea kettle. The guards could not get rid of him soon enough. Once they had taken his wand, Sirius was brought to the very top, the high-security cells, where he would be cut off from the rest of the world.

The door swung shut with a bang; that seemed to faze Sirius a bit. He finally registered what had happened, and all traces of indifference faded. He leaned back against the walls of his cell for support, sliding down them as his strength failed, shock and guilt and misery plastered on his face. "Oh, god." He had failed. "Oh, god." Lily and James were dead. "Oh my god." It was his fault. "Oh my god." Peter, the traitor, the coward, had escaped with a good name and nine fingers intact. "Oh my god." And now there was no going back. Everything was gone, demolished, ruined. It would never be the same, not for any of them. Not even the traitor.

Their lives were ruined. And their shadows had been left behind.


End file.
